Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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